by Pat Davis
I think they are sheep at first
but they’re corpses
wrapped and tied in white shrouds.
but they’re corpses
wrapped and tied in white shrouds.
I wish they were low clouds
laid out in a row
but they’re my purchases,
femur, tibia, wrist
tied up for delivery.
I bought the rubble,
the bulldozers, too.
Israel lets in chips
and Coke.
Children are dying of hunger.
Children are dying of cold.
Our papers blame the wind.
Blame the rain.
Aid is blocked, the doctors
forced out.
By the toe-end of a corpse
as long as my forearm
is a puddle of muddy water in which a star
was lost
Patricia Davis’ poems appear in Smartish Pace, Image, Southern Humanities Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and other journals. Also a playwright, she earned her MFA from American University. She is translations editor for the literary journal Poet Lore and lives in the Washington, DC area, where she works in human rights advocacy.
